


A Greek Chorus

by trinityofone



Category: Cobra Kai (Web Series), Karate Kid (Movies)
Genre: Awful People Being Awful, Multi, POV Outsider, Pining, Repression, Sex Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 19:53:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30043872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trinityofone/pseuds/trinityofone
Summary: An oral history of John Kreese and Terry Silver, 1969-2019, through the eyes of the women they hire for sex.(Fleabag Voice:This is a love story.)
Relationships: John Kreese/Terry Silver, John Kreese/Terry Silver/OFCs
Comments: 19
Kudos: 44





	A Greek Chorus

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for: these characters and their typical behavior. Consent and safety issues associated with sex work. One act of (non-sexual) violence, plus (off-screen) violence typical of war. Probably nothing outside of what you'd expect from this pairing, and I tried not to add anything gratuitous, but if the concept itself makes you comfortable, you may want to skip.
> 
> Many thanks to [SweetPollyOliver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetPollyOliver/pseuds/SweetPollyOliver) for encouraging me to write these characters, and for their thoughtful and heartening feedback, and also to [Siria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria) for invaluable betaing, even though she was (not unreasonably!) a little like, "Why would you do this."

**Hoa, Vietnam, 1969**

There was nothing unusual about them. Not at first. It was a common thing, these boys who came in shy, bolstered by their friends. Boys old enough to fight, fire a gun, but too young to have finished growing up. Boys who had killed but never lain with a woman.

I was young too, I realize now, even if I no longer felt it. No longer wore it on my face like some of these boys.

This boy, the one you want to hear about, he came in with his friend. The friend, a little older, less shy, he’s pulling money out of his pockets—loose, crumpled bills. I knew I wouldn’t be getting off early that night, haha. His friend, the shy one, is protesting in a low voice: “No, Johnny, it’s okay, save your money…” And the older one laughs—not a warm laugh, but a laugh like bitter chocolate—and says, “We almost _died_. We may still die any day. Can’t let you die a virgin, Terry.”

The shy boy goes somehow paler and says, “Shh. She’ll hear.” 

But I turn my look of half-understanding into one of complete incomprehension: perfectly placid and blank. 

The older boy hands me the scraped together crumple of money. It’s enough. He leans in close to my ear and whispers, “Go easy on him,” in English, and then, in almost unparseable Vietnamese, “First time.”

I smile and simper, as I’m expected to, and lead the younger boy over to the cot.

And this was where they became a memory and not just any other night. Because the young virgin who I’m about to make into a man, his friend does not leave. He leans up against my little table, folds his arms, stares forward like he’s ready to enjoy a play. I can feel him watching, prickly on the back of my neck, and I am prepared to tell him no, for whatever good that may do, if he tries to touch, to join in. That is extra, not what we agreed. But he doesn’t move. He just watches. And his young friend, he sees him watching. He looks up at me, pupils blown big as I untie my robe, expose my breasts—but his eyes also constantly flick and move past me, back to his friend. I guide him into me and he gulps, watching our body come together—then flick, flick, flick. 

“There you go,” his friend murmurs. “Heaven, isn’t it.”

I was trying to ignore them, brain in autopilot just like my body: roll my hips, give them what they paid for.

“Oh, oh it is. Oh Johnny, I’m _really_ going to owe you forever now…”

I remember thinking, as I rode him, that the older one better not be touching himself or he should be paying me more, that I should have kicked him out when I had the chance. But his arms never uncrossed. He just looked, eyes dark and focused, like he was committing the scene to memory.

The boy came very quickly and the pair of them left. A few months later, they came back, but they visited my friend Phượng, not me. By then, I was already dead.

**Phượng, Vietnam, 1970**

Skinny boy, he come in dragging his bigger friend, saying, “Johnny, Johnny, I _insist_ , this time it’s on me!” Bigger boy sigh and say, “Fine, just this once. Since you _insist_ ,” and I know I’m in for a real fun night. Even better, skinny try to stick around after he pay me just for one. I screech at him to get out, and he tangle his foot in curtain as he leave, almost fall onto his face. Haha, as poor dead Hoa used to say.

Big guy not laughing. Not rough with me, not like some, but stiff, in-out, in-out. Done fast. At least he does not try to cuddle me, call me his flower, tell me about America, say he’ll _take_ me to America. He says maybe not a single word. Leaves with a frown. Doesn’t matter. I forget him already. Easy to forget with practice, if you do it many times. Every night I choose: to forget, and to survive.

And I do. I live, and I don’t think about these or any of those boys again until I have to share this story.

**Debra, Long Beach, 1975**

Back then, I often tricked with this girl called Betts. Betts was a real bitch, but there was some safety in numbers, and some of the Johns were so easy and dumb: you give ‘em two girls willing to kiss and pet and maybe finger each other a little, and that’s _all_ you end up having to do. Like half the time you’d barely have to touch the John himself. Hallelujah! 

So we land these two Johns—clearly just back stateside, you learn to recognize the look—and we follow them back to their motel room. A real shithole. Two full beds, comforters I don’t want touching my bare bottom—and I’ve fucked against a dumpster, _recreationally_. Betts and I look at each other; it’s clear we’re both assuming we’ll each handle a John, doesn’t really matter which, but that first we’ll try a bit of our tandem act and see if that moves everything along more efficiently. It often does.

Betts and I make a show of undressing each other, giggling in surprise every time something comes off and something is revealed: oh look! A nipple! The Johns are lounging together on one of the beds—which is, okay, maybe a little weird, but maybe they each want to make sure they have the best view, because they are looking at us nice and intently. The tall skinny guy’s jaw is hanging open: like he’s having the best, most incredible time. He keeps elbowing his friend, who looks like he’s sucked a lemon. 

Finally cranky-pants barks, “Let’s get this show on the road, ladies” so we go over to the bed. I remember thinking that maybe they were sharing because they want us to keep doing stuff with each other, me and Betts; that wouldn’t be so bad. Still when it’s time to choose a John—at least until they make a decision for us—I remind Betts psychically that she still owes me for the extra $30 of rent money I slipped her last week. She gets the message or is too dumb to know what’s good for her, because she lets me take the happy puppy.

We get down to business and for a while it’s going well: happy puppy talks too much, but he’s excited by everything I’m doing and doesn’t want to do anything weird. He does keep trying to check up on his friend, which is either very sweet or some whole other thing far above _my_ pay grade, so whatever. 

We’re almost at the finish line when all of a sudden I hear an unmistakably awful sound: the slap of a palm against a face.

I know Betts and Betts doesn’t _do_ any of that pain-play stuff; I look over and see her reeling back, hand against bruised cheek. Her fucking John is leaning against the headboard, face all scrunched up and red, his big ape hand still cocked like a weapon at his side. I kick my guy off and rush to her, one eye on the exit, already gathering articles of clothing, tensed and ready in case they try to stop us. But the dumb fucking puppy is fully focused on his friend, babbling “Hey, hey, Johnny, no” as he tries to comfort him. So the asshole John was a literal John. Figures.

Literal John doesn’t take well to being puppied at: he shoves his friend away. But puppy comes right back, and then the two of them are _tussling_ , bodies slamming blindly against the nightstand, and Betts and I don’t even need to share a psychic thought: we get the hell out of there.

I remember we were pulling on our shoes in the parking lot, me grimacing up at Betts’ purpling eye, and I said, “Jesus Christ, Betts, what did you say to set him off like that?”

And she’d rolled her eyes—or at least tried to, the unswollen one, and said, “For god’s sake, Debbie: as if anything these men do has anything to do with us.”

Like I said: _such_ a snooty bitch.

**Elizabeth, Long Beach, 1975**

He was already inside me when clearly some part of his brain clicked back online and he remembered we were both human beings and asked me, “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

I put on my peachy pie homecoming queen voice and told him, “You can call me Betts.”

I saw immediately that we’d gone off the rails: his eyes went dark and distant. I heard his breath hitch and a watery look come into his eyes, and because I was still a baby who thought she could heal the world, I said, “It’s all right. It’s okay, baby. You can cry.”

And then he hit me.

Look, if that were the worst thing that ever happened to me—in my time as a sex worker, not to mention before and since—I would be a lucky woman. Really, what I think that experience represents, what I certainly _took_ it to represent, at the time, is another indictment against the piteously poor mental health treatment this country’s veterans received upon their return from Vietnam—a problem that persists to this day. Which is why, when I was finally able to save enough money to finish my degree, I wrote my dissertation on the course and consequences of post-traumatic stress disorder on Vietnam-era veterans, and why I still work as the psychology training director at the Downtown Los Angeles VA clinic. 

Sadly, due to numerous faulty cultural premises surrounding self-reliance and masculinity, too many service members have, to this day, never felt empowered to seek help. I hope that man was somehow the exception.

**Cindy, Santa Monica, 1977**

So I get a call to come to the Miramar—a top-floor suite with ocean views, so I’m expecting a good night. When I get there, there’s two dudes in the room—but the booking service warned me about that; I know what they’re likely going to be expecting to get but also what _I’m_ getting. I don’t mind a bit of DP every once in a while, as long as I’m paid for the effort.

So I come in and the tall skinny guy springs up: he’s not bad looking, nice thick dark hair, though he seems to be experimenting with some little nubbin of a ponytail, which is certainly a _choice_. Ponytail guy, he hops to his feet and immediately starts trying to play the gentleman with me, takes my coat, et cetera. That whole show. 

I notice the room is absolutely _covered_ in shopping bags. It looks like these two bought out every department store in town. Ponytail guy sits me on a little chaise, then jumps up again, drags a suit coat out of a bag, strides back over to his friend. “Johnny, put on the jacket I bought you, we’re _celebrating_.”

So right away I feel a little sad for them that they’re trying to have some sort of massive blowout, but they clearly don’t have any other friends. 

Even sadder, the guy in the corner dodges the arm thrusting the jacket out of him. “I told you not to spend your money on me.”

“Johnny, I’m _rich_ now, there’s plenty more where that came from.”

Ponytail guy does a weird little dance with the suit jacket. Okay.

Johnny’s having none of it. Ponytail’s shoulders slump. This is depressing and I start wishing I’d popped a benzo or something before I came. But then Ponytail produces, from yet another bag, a wooden box. “At least have a _cigar_ ,” he says.

His friend, begrudgingly, allows himself to be tempted by the cigar. Bells ring, a choir of angels sing, et cetera. 

Ponytail suddenly remembers about me, rushes back over, declaring “Champagne!” So I’m poured a glass of champagne. “Music!” Ponytail declares next, popping in a cassette: some classical thing which he spends a few moments faux-conducting like a maniac. 

To my surprise, a chuckle comes from behind the curtain of smoke in the corner. “Terry, you’re a menace,” he says, fondly.

“You love it!” says ponytail guy, much too loudly. I knock back more champagne.

Ponytail has of course bought me the type of dress men like him always buy me: it’s red and tight—slightly too tight, to be honest, but I don’t expect to be in it too long. Unfortunately, Ponytail seems determined to stick to the “celebration” idea, to pretend this is a real party—and he’s paid for the whole night, so I have to roll with it. Food arrives. We go out onto the balcony and gloat about our good fortune in the direction of the Pacific Ocean. There are endless toasts. Ponytail’s eyes are always following his friend around the room, but the man is steadily smoking himself through the entire box of cigars, so in my memory he’s basically a white cloud, floating away from his friend’s bright gaze.

So. It’s a pretty weird night.

I remember feeling sure it will all become more normal once we retreat to the bedroom, which we finally do. I’m there, undressing behind one of those silly wooden screens when I hear the cigar guy say to ponytail, “You really only sprang for one girl this time? I thought you were _rich_ now.”

Ponytail is silent for a beat too long before he says, “You don’t think it’ll be hot? Watching her take both of us at once?”

_Right. So here we go_ , I think.

“You have my attention,” cigar guy says, and then he chuckles, dirty and low. His friend joins him, laughing and laughing, and I remember the way the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. The way my belly clenched as my mind leapt around wildly: Manson—Zodiac—that Son of Sam freak who’d been arrested just that summer. My knees turned to water: I recall being convinced, suddenly, that I was never going to leave that beautiful hotel suite alive.

I was being silly, of course. It was fine. I got myself together, came out from behind the screen. The two men are waiting, the cigar guy in his underwear and Ponytail in some sort of insane silk robe. Ponytail says the usual bullshit about how beautiful I am, et cetera, et cetera, and I climb up onto my hands and knees on the bed. Without too much messing around, cigar guy takes me from behind while I suck off Ponytail, and then after a break—more food I don’t want, more champagne—they switch. They never even attempt anything more ambitious. Outside of my weird reaction earlier, it’s only notable because of how much they _talk_ : ponytail guy is, clearly, incapable of shutting up, but he can seemingly get cigar guy going, and the entire time they’re fucking me, _both_ times, most of their attention seems to be on egging each other on. Ponytail keeps asking if cigar guy can _feel_ it whenever he thrusts into me. “Johnny, look how she’s taking me. Can you feel that?”

So I start thinking less like I’m going to be murdered and more like I may be asked to leave the room.

Eventually we pass out on a heap on the bed. Ponytail’s arms are so long, one stretches over me and onto cigar guy’s back. I’m on the clock till 6 a.m., so I stay hunkered down, not wanting to wake them and get things going again. I’m exhausted and I think I even sleep, a little. 

But I remember watching the light slowly start to creep through the blinds, feeling my heart pound, still too hard and too fast, as I ran out the clock.

Just before six, I slide out from under Ponytail’s arm. I’m padding around the main part of the suite, trying quietly to find my other shoe, when he emerges from the bedroom. He’s grinning again, too widely. He says, “You were great, just great,” and thrusts a wad of cash into my hand. I can tell without looking it’s a generous tip. He tells me I can keep the dress too. I force my most sincere smile, say thank you over and over, and book it out of there as quickly as I can.

I never took the tag off the dress, so that was another $600 when I returned it to Saks. So overall, really, it was an unusually profitable night. 

But I still have dreams about it.

**Vickie, Reseda, 1978**

I’m called out to this weird exercise studio in the West Valley. It smells like paint. A crazy beanpole of a guy with a bad ponytail tells me I’m there to help them christen their dojo. Okay, doll, whatever you need to get your rocks off. They have me put on some weird two-piece exercise pajamas with a dumb snake on the back, and at ponytail guy’s instruction, I do my routine for an older, burlier guy with some bad tattoos who ponytail guy has coaxed into sitting in a folding chair. He spends the first half of my dance puffing on a cigar and breathing smoke into my face. In fact, he doesn’t ever get all that into it until toward the very end, when his friend starts massaging his shoulders, hooting into both our ears as I grind on the burly guy’s lap.

Afterward, ponytail guy tries to slip me like an extra thousand bucks to “stay and have a good time,” but that was a hard pass. I bounce. 

Later I see the ponytail guy on the news and I’m like: yeah, of course a guy that sleazy works in toxic waste.

**Mimona, Tahiti, 1985**

Everything was arranged in advance, from America. This other American arrived and we were to “take care” of him—full service. Fine. Americans are not complicated. Men are not complicated. Tauhine and I brought him food, brought him drinks, smokes. Gave him massages. Gave him many “happy endings,” as it is annoyingly called, because they are _never_ -ending; this type of guest always wants more. This one was not the worst. Except for the phone. The endless long-distance calls! I had to call the other American, the one who arranged everything, and get extra money sent for the long-distance bill. Ridiculous.

One night he asks Tauhine and I to come provide the “full service,” and we get to his room and he already has the other American on the phone. He puts him on speaker. “Mimona told me she missed you,” he says. An obvious lie. “I thought maybe you’d like to hear from her.”

I’m trying to figure out if he honestly wants me to talk to his friend, but then he strips off his shorts, gestures. I get the picture. Restraining myself from giving Tauhine a significant look, I climb aboard and start taking care of business. The American pushes up onto his haunches and mouths, “ _Louder_ ” at me, aggressively. Feeling foolish, I let out a performative moan.

“Oh yeah, I hear that!” says the man on the phone. “I hope you’re giving her my best, Johnny.”

Usually the American just lies there and takes it, but now he grabs me by the arm and flips me over. Seemingly inspired, he starts driving into me, hard. He’s heavy on top of me, careless with his weight, and he keeps grunting, creating an odd percussive rhythm with my exaggerated moans and his friend’s voice saying “yeah!” over and over. I catch Tauhine’s eye and she looks like she is not really sure what she’s meant to be doing. We have had our fair share of strange clients: we are popular with the intelligence services—your CIAs, your MI6s, your KGBs. But these Americans, they take the cake.

The American fucking me, he’s been staring ahead toward the speaker phone this whole time. Suddenly he looks down and he says, “Tell him you’re thinking of him.”

I am, I feel understandably, confused. “I’m—?”

He gives me a disdainful look, like I am an idiot. “Say, ‘Terry, we’re thinking of you.’”

Dutifully, I say it, moan it, whatever he seems to want: “Terry, we are thinking of you.”

Does the American notice his own pronoun shift? Probably not. But I, who must think carefully about my words—in English, among my sensitive clients: I do.

“Ohhhh baby,” says the man on the phone, who I sense is _enjoying_ this call, “you’re the _best_.”

I have to call and get the phone surcharges paid for two more times.

**Sherry, Hollywood, 1986**

Look, the mid-‘80s were not a great time for me. I was on a lot of coke. Worse stuff, too. I had this gig where I’d be sent to parties—low-class industry parties, a lot of them—as eye-candy, entertainment, _favors_ , basically. It was gross. But it was money. What I thought then was relatively easy money.

Some guy with this creepy brutalist mansion in the Hollywood Hills was having some kind of blowout shindig. More staff than guests, or _unpaid_ guests, it seemed to me. Grapevine said the guy was in all kinds of legal trouble—indictments? lawsuits? I didn’t know or care. I drank, I mingled, but mostly I tried to embody a living, breathing objet d’art. Then I snuck away to do a line in the bathroom with one of the cater-waiters. 

A man burst in just as I was standing up, finger on my nose, and said, “Oh! I’ve found the _real_ party!” He was glassy eyed—clearly he’d found plenty of party action already. He nudged the cater-waiter aside and examined the lines of powder on the sink. He sniffed disdainfully. “I can do you so much better than that, sweetheart. Follow me.”

At some point, I blearily recognized the man as our host, but in all honesty I think that was after I’d already started to follow him.

The hallways were long and dark, full of columns. They gave me the chills. The whole place was decorated like some sort of Mayan or Aztec temple—I half expected to round the corner and see an altar readied for sacrifice. Instead, the party’s host threw open a pair of giant wooden doors, revealing a bedroom. _Oh, okay_ , I thought. We’re skipping to this part. 

But the guy actually did go to a chest of drawers and take out a baggie. He tossed it to me, then strode deeper into the room, knocking on a further door. “Johnny, I saw you slink away. Come back out and join the fun.”

I was sitting on the big bed, measuring out the coke on a hardcover copy of _The Art of War_ that was sitting on the nightstand, when the inner door swung open. Another man, unshaven and with wild hair, not dressed for a party unless it was a costume party themed around longshoremen, entered carrying a blue duffle bag. “I’m leaving,” he growled.

Our host seized him by the wrist. “Come on, Johnny, don’t be like that. Everything’s fine. We’re having a great time here! We’re gonna turn it around!”

The guy with the duffle snorted. It was a mean, mean sound. It struck me, suddenly, that I didn’t need any more coke—that I would be making for the door if I didn’t think it would draw too much attention.

“You never know when to quit, do you, Terry?” He broke the host’s hold with a twisting tug.

Our host lunged to block his path. “I thought defeat didn’t exist. _You_ taught me that, Johnny. We can’t give up now. We’ll find a way—”

“No, it’s finished. _We’re_ finished.” Another push past, harder this time. I shrank into the corner of the bed.

Our host had no similar self-preservation instincts: he grabbed the other man by the shirt. “All right, let’s not think about that. Let’s just have fun. I threw us a party. I’ve got drugs, I’ve got booze. There are all these pretty girls here.” 

He gestured, vaguely, at me, which I did not appreciate.

The man with the duffle sneered. “More trifles. Distractions. You keep living like this, you’re going to go _soft_.”

Our host brushed this off. “Would that be so bad? What are we still fighting for, Johnny? Why don’t we just live? We don’t have to worry about anything, we’ve got plenty of money. Just look at this place.” He gestured, proudly, at the extent of his domain, in which I tried not to feel uncomfortably included. 

“ _Your_ place. _Your_ money,” said the man with the duffle, still sneering.

“What’s mine is yours, Johnny. Always. You know that.”

The other man sized him up: our host in his slick black suit, with his oil slick of black hair, his glassy eyes, his eager expression. 

“You’re _pathetic_ ,” duffle man said. “Is this really how it’s going to be for the rest of our lives—you slinking along behind me like a kicked dog? Or like a mangy stray cat, dropping your rotten little gifts at my feet, all these things I couldn’t possibly want?”

Our host’s smile faltered, but didn’t crumble completely. “John, if you want to go downstairs and spar, you could just ask. You don’t have to try to get me worked up.”

“You think I’m playing a game? I don’t play games—that’s for a little weasel like you. _I_ get things done. And I’m going to go where my skills are appreciated.”

He turned and started for the door again. He was almost gone—and I’d almost let out a long-held breath—when our host, a clear glutton for punishment, caught up to him in the doorway. “John, _stop_.”

Our host grabbed him by the shoulders, slammed him against the doorframe. I let out a gasp, but the man with the duffle quietly dropped his bag. His arms seemed pinned to me, but then he did something, twisting and quick, and he was free, shoving his former captor in the chest. Our host’s back hit the opposite side of the door.

“Don’t you touch me,” the shorter man growled. 

Our host held up his hands as if in surrender. “I won’t. I only… I only want what’s best for you. I only want to make you happy.” In the face of the other man’s glare, he tried a laugh. “I know it’s pathetic. Love makes you pathetic. But it also sets you—”

His friend punched him in the stomach. I _heard_ it; I felt as if I had _felt_ it: the pain of the strike, of the air leaving your body, an agonizing breathless wrench. With our host still doubled over, the other man picked up his duffle and strode briskly down the long columned hall. The owner of the house was still sitting on the floor, looking after him, long after he vanished into the dark.

But eventually he picked himself up, straightened his tie, and returned to the party. I was forgotten.

I put the bag of coke in my purse and left. Habit? Instinct? I must have been intending to _use_ it. But I ended up throwing it away near a bus stop on Fountain Avenue. 

I’ve been sober ever since.

**Kaylee, Reseda, 2019**

I’m not, like, wildly thrilled to be picked up by a grizzled old guy in a sketchy beater who wants to go back to his place, but it’s a slow night and he gives me the money up front. He says we’re going to meet his friend, which I’m also not wild about, but he slips me an extra $200 and says he values my consent, so if anything makes me uncomfortable, we can stop at any time. I guess he’s kind of like a sweet old grandpa; he can’t be very _strong_. I text Trina the details in case he somehow turns out to be some sort of senior citizen serial murderer—haha—and get in the car.

He drives me a fairly bare and depressing one bedroom apartment, but I’ve seen worse: he doesn’t have dildos on display everywhere, or dolls. Like, look at me and ask me if I’m kidding: I’m not. Just my luck, I guess. He offers me a seat on a Goodwill corduroy couch, asks if I want a drink. I say water. I’ve been trying to do a cleanse.

We wait, awkwardly; mercifully, he doesn’t try to make small talk. I start to wonder when I’m going to have to call it—if his friend doesn’t show, do I have to give him the money back? Maybe I can just suck on his wrinkly old dick and leave?—when there’s a knock on the door.

The old guy is pretty spry, springing to his feet. Then he stops, and I see him deliberately switch to a saunter, make the decision to try to play it cool. He opens the door—and there’s _another_ old guy standing there. It’s a regular AARP convention. This one is even taller, lankier. His hair isn’t grey but silvery white—he’s not bad looking, tbh. Kind of a silver fox. What he is trying to achieve with that ponytail, however, I have no idea.

These two old men, they stand on either side of the threshold for—well, long enough for me to make a full catalogue of all of knockoff Anderson Cooper’s physical attributes. They’re staring at each other and there’s some weeeeeeird tension—but then they both sort of fall forward into a hug. “Johnny!” exclaims the silver fox. “It’s good to see you.”

“You look good,” says grandpa no. 1. But like, in a begrudging way.

“Didn’t get soft after all,” says the fox, and then for some reason it’s weird and tense again.

“No,” says the first grandpa, after a minute, “it seems you didn’t.”

The fox notices me for the first time. “Whoa! What have we here?” He flashes a broad smile in my direction, and the state of his teeth is still #goals, but there’s something unnerving about his grin. It looks like a deepfake of a hot person’s smile. I shiver.

“Brought us some entertainment,” first grandpa says. “For old time’s sake.”

“Right,” says the fox, in an odd tone of voice. He steps over the threshold, kicking the door closed. “You haven’t changed at all, have you, John?”

“Why mess with perfection?”

This—joke?—does not land well.

“Maybe we should just stick to business,” says the fox.

First grandpa’s shoulders slump just a tad. “No, no—we can’t be rude to our guest.” He turns to me. “Go lay down on the bed, darling. We’ll join you in just a moment.”

I escape down the hall. There, I discover that grandpa doesn’t own a bedframe, just a mattress on the floor. I’m depressed. I don’t even feel like snooping through the little nightstand’s drawers. I take off my shoes and tights to make this go faster. I wish I hadn’t left my glass of water in the living room. I’m hungry and I think maybe this cleanse idea is stupid.

There are footsteps in the hall, and then first grandpa appears, towing the fox by his shirt. He’s talking the whole time, a rough-voiced whisper: “Do you remember that first time, in Vietnam? You were so nervous. It was _adorable_.” I think he’s going for a mocking tone, but it doesn’t quite land. The vibes in here are insane.

“I remember,” says the fox, pink high on his cheeks. “You stayed. It meant so much to me, that you stayed.”

“They say that if you save a man’s life, you become responsible for him,” first grandpa says. He’s unbuttoning the fox’s shirt.

“Maybe,” the fox replies. “But it runs both ways.”

They’re undressing each other. They’re moving slow, and I’m not sure if it’s because they have shaky fingers or they just want to take their time with it. Whatever the reason, the result is resolute and weirdly sensual. I realize that they haven’t stopped gazing into each other’s eyes this entire time. I feel less and less like a waiting participant and more like a spycam, a fly on the wall.

The fox’s shirt falls to the floor, and, like, congrats to him on his whole situation. I hope I look that good when I’m…however old he is. I hope I _live_ that long; realistically, the planet is probably going to burn or California will fall into the sea by then. But it’s nice to dream. 

First grandpa has obviously taken his years harder; his chest looks like a piece of pounded meat. But his arms are thick with muscle and terrible tattoos—I could not have been more wrong about him being weak and defenseless. I would maybe start feeling a little nervous, except I am fairly obviously the least interesting thing in the universe to these two right now.

First grandpa pauses with his fingers on the fox’s belt buckle. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“This is shaping up to be quite the apology,” says the fox in a choked voice.

“Is it?”

“If you let it.”

“Is that a challenge?”

The fox laughs: it _is_ foxlike, a weird and unnerving bark. “I’ve been throwing this gauntlet down for you for fifty fucking years.”

I see first grandpa’s lip twist. When he lunges forward, I genuinely think for a moment that he’s going to _bite_ , go full Hannibal Lecter or something. But instead it’s a kiss. A rough, mean kiss that has the fox letting out a little gut-punched moan. He grabs the back of first grandpa’s head: desperate, clutching. 

I watch as they stumble back, hit the wall, intent on devouring each other. I have to say, I am both disturbed and impressed. They seem to have a lot of stamina. They probably need to talk through their issues a little more instead of making out in front of the sex worker they hired to try to put a “no homo” stamp on their fraught little reunion or whatever, but you know: we all have our journeys. And it’s really none of my business.

I’m wondering if my whole role here is going to be as well-paid but slightly unwitting audience to the senior citizen gay sexcapades, when said capades carry them toward the bed, where I’ve frozen in shock and/or awe. I roll out of the way just in time to avoid getting crushed as their bodies hit the mattress. The fox, on top, startles open one eye long enough to notice me. “You’re still here?”

I shrug like: _You tell me, pal_.

He pulls a slim leather wallet from his half-undone pants and flings some bills in my direction. “Call an Uber. Go home.”

It’s another couple hundred dollars at least. I tuck it into my shoe with the rest, grab them and my balled-up tights, and tiptoe toward the door. 

“Wait,” says first grandpa, peering dark-eyed from under the fox’s braced shoulder. “Shouldn’t she stay?”

“No.” The fox takes the other man’s chin in his hand, turns his face back up to his. “We don’t need her anymore.”

My strings are cut. I leave—but not before hearing a truly pornographic moan which will no doubt continue to haunt my waking hours with geriatric sex dreams.

Outside the apartment, I order a car. I’m clicking the default of my home address when I suddenly change my mind: there’s something else that I want. 

I type in the address of the closest Denny’s. Fuck this cleanse; I’m going to eat and eat and eat.

I’m ravenous.

**Author's Note:**

> Checking off the "Pining" square on my [Cobra Kai Bingo](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Cobra_Kai_Bingo) card, because 50 years? That's some hardcore pining.


End file.
